


we're not all here for you

by hypophrenia



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, i actually wrote this like a month ago but i hate it so, im sorry its so cliche and rough, saimatsu is So Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 13:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13482555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypophrenia/pseuds/hypophrenia
Summary: I was too busy falling in love with you to love myself.Saihara thinks he would've been better off not loving Akamatsu in the end.





	we're not all here for you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amaryllises](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaryllises/gifts).



> @milra here is the saimatsu fic i promised id write. this isnt actually the one i really liked, that one i cant seem to complete so have this piece of garbage while i try to douse the fires on the other one.
> 
> @ppl here for oumasai: im sorry i have lots of wips for the ship feel free to send me death threats at aristre dot tumblr dot com pls dont leave m

In his dreams, Saihara fucks a grand piano. Not.

 

In his dream, in his singular, plural: none, one dream, he dreams of Akamatsu Kaede. And her neck’s not wrapped with a noose and there’s a smile on her face so he thinks that the previous execution was a dream. But not her. She’s sitting at a piano, fingers plucking at keys with the grace of someone who’s practiced the same song over and over again.

 

“Do you like it?” she asks. Saihara nods, spews some half-thought out compliment, and Akamatsu grins and her fingers find ivory keys again and she plays something else.

 

Halfway through the song, she stops.

 

“This isn’t real,” she says, matter of fact. There's remorse and resignation in her voice, a turnaround so complete from her prior cheeriness Saihara almost gets whiplash. Then she turns to Saihara, eyes glossy. “Sorry.”

 

Saihara wants to ask what she means, because isn’t she talking to him right now? Isn’t she playing Chopin or Mozart? Aren’t they sitting in an empty auditorium after one of her shows?

 

He wants to ask all this and more, but Akamatsu returns back to the piano, fingers picking up and playing away but it’s much slower now, much more lethargic. Her hands don’t fly with impossible speed only befitting the ultimate pianist; her hands move back and forth with ease, slow and simple.

 

“Clair de Lune,” she says, continuing to play without looking up. “That’s what it’s called. Remember?”

 

He doesn’t but he nods anyways, and Akamatsu frowns. Her fingers never falter though, and they continue plucking away. But she doesn’t say anything.

 

Saihara might be sitting in the front row, but the music drowns out all the same and when he opens his eyes, they’re directed at a smooth plaster ceiling.

 

He doesn’t react for the longest time, instead trying to remember just how Akamatsu looked perched on her seat, slim fingers dancing along piano keys.

 

The biggest problem is that he can’t; he knows he dreamt about Akamatsu and he knows she was playing the piano in an otherwise empty theater after all its inhabitants had left, but he can’t bring the image to his mind. He closes his eyes, and lets his mind empty out into a solemn silence.

 

Eventually the doorbell rings and Saihara’s forced to answer it and be greeted with one Momota Kaito who looks far too happy. He has a raucous grin on his face that’s normally too rough and overbearing for Saihara, but he welcomes that sort of smile anyways. It’s too boisterous to be confused with Akamatsu’s, who was, in a sense, the same kind of “hero” type Momota was.

 

Momota drags him out for breakfast and a morning meeting. Without his hat he can clearly see everyone else, but that’s fine. Akamatsu would’ve wanted that, wouldn’t she?

 

Or, actually, does he even have the right to say that? It’s partially his fault that she’s dead, so why does he get to think about what she wanted and what she didn’t? So maybe she left her will with him. Even if she was fully prepared to head to the chopping block, he wasn’t ready for that to happen to her. Her faith in him was her her downfall, and somehow that makes it all the worse.

 

The logical part of him says he should probably (probably) just get over himself, because Akamatsu was clear in her wishes and she didn’t want her successor to mope around. Akamatsu was always positive, a beacon of light forced to kill.

 

She loved herself in a way Saihara never could, but she loved everyone else more. In the brightness she had before her death, she was everything Saihara had ever hoped to be.

 

In the three days he had known her, she was cheerful and kind, with a strong will and firm sense of justice. She was charismatic and brave, just like the protagonist of a story.

 

But she’s dead and protagonists don’t die, so something went wrong. And that something was him. If he hadn’t done anything, she would be alive right now.

 

And someone else would be dead, maybe everyone. So what’s worse? The entire class dying, or just Akamatsu and Amami? It’s not a decision Saihara thinks he’ll ever be able to make.

 

Shifting the objects in his hands, Saihara slowly walks out of the cafeteria. He has places to explore and if Momota’s going to thrust the grunt work to him, it’s easier to comply and not argue against something he doesn’t mind doing in the end.

 

Though he has the title of “detective,” he doesn’t really think of himself that way. He’s not some world-wide famous case-solver or justice fueled hero. He revealed the truth in a case by coincidence and has been afraid of the truth ever since.

 

But when Akamatsu told him he was a true detective, he really did feel like one. For the longest time, he truly did believe in her, that he could tell the truth and he was supposed to, that doing so would help everything turn out alright.

 

Well, not everything turned out alright. Akamatsu’s still metaphorically six feet under, and he still can’t get over her. But he thinks of it this way; he’s a detective because of her. For her.

 

In this manner, it makes investigating feel a little less grating. He’ll find some clue to getting out, because that was what Akamatsu had wanted all along.

 

Saihara thinks he would’ve been better off not loving Akamatsu in the end. Maybe that way she wouldn’t burn into his thoughts and leave behind irreplaceable happiness, sadness crudely painted over once-happy times.

 

\---

 

The cafeteria is quiet. It’s almost lunchtime but not quite, just around the time Saihara wakes up.

 

The rice he’s trying to eat is an early breakfast. Not wanting to inconvenience Tojo, he had forced himself out of his blankets and made himself a bowl of rice and miso soup, the only things he really knew how to cook.

 

He put too much water in the rice cooker so now the rice is mushy and somehow the soup tastes oddly bitter, even though the miso he added looked pretty high quality.

 

At least it’s edible, though Saihara doesn’t have much of an appetite either. He convinced himself to go in order to not collapse or die, because what good would he be to Akamatsu that way? It’s a little strange having to plug in Akamatsu to force himself to do anything, but it has its desired effects, if not a little more weaker every time, so he does it anyways.

 

The chopsticks feel heavy in his hand and he stares at the smooth wood. They’re not cheap ones like the disposable ones in restaurants, surprisingly. Where did Monokuma get chopsticks and high quality miso anyways? And why go through the trouble, if Monokuma’s purpose is to get them to kill each other?

 

He hears footsteps in the hallway outside with half-perked ears, particularly heavy. Not light and deliberate like an athlete’s, which rules out Chabashira, Hoshi, and even Tojo, who has her very elegant way of walking.

 

They’re much too heavy to be any of the lighter people too, which rules out Yonaga, Ouma, Kiibo, and Yumeno. So in the end, the mystery person could be—

 

Saihara’s grip on his chopsticks tighten a little. Why is he trying to figure out who they are anyways? It’s not like it’ll matter whether Gonta or Iruma walk in.

 

He purges all thoughts from his mind and pokes a little at his rice, grimacing at the texture. All the rice grains seem to be shoved together all sticky-like.

 

The mystery person walks in (maybe Momota?) and pauses.

 

“Oh hey, Shuichi, I was lookin’ for you!” Momota walks over from the cafeteria entrance and pulls up a chair next to Saihara. “I got something to talk about.”

 

“Oh, okay.” Saihara sets down his chopsticks, turning to Momota with what he hoped was a polite smile on his face. “Um...what is it?”

 

“Well, it’s…” Momota trails off, apprehensive look on his face. “Ack, it’s kinda hard to just outright put it but...I wanted to talk about, y’know, Akamatsu.”

 

“O-oh.” Saihara struggles with keeping any sign of anything off his face, trying to stay impassive. But it doesn’t seem like Momota really cares, because he keeps talking without getting sidetracked.

 

“Look, it’s just ever since _that_ , you’ve been sorta distant. And I get you, she was super important, but that’s not the problem.”

 

“It’s not?”

 

“Nah. I understand being sad about someone you cared about, even if you could’ve been tougher about it.” Momota almost looks a little embarrassed, but quickly brushes it off. “But it doesn’t feel like you’re _really_ sad about it though.”

 

“...excuse me?” Saihara doesn’t know how to react to someone telling him whatever jumbled mess of residual feelings he had wasn’t real. If he were someone else, he might’ve lashed out. But he doesn’t—he sits next to his tray of mushy rice and bitter miso soup and watches Momota. The breath feels punched out of him, but Momota doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

 

“I’m not good with explaining this kinda stuff but…” Eyes closed, he scratches at the back of his head. “You seem like you’re convincing yourself you’re sad when you’re not. I mean, you’re not happy she’s not here, but you seem mostly over it.”

 

Saihara stays quiet for a very long time, processing Momota’s words. Then, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

 

Momota purses his lips. “Look, men shouldn’t lie to themselves about their own feelings. It’s not manly.”

 

“...sorry.”

 

“Whoa, men shouldn’t apologize too much either. All I’m saying is that you don’t seem like you’re really mourning over Akamatsu. I don’t mean that in a bad way, but it’s like you’re forcing yourself to think you’re upset over her because you feel obligated to.” Momota quickly got up, leaving his chair unpushed. “I’m gonna grab something to eat.”

 

As Momota disappeared into the kitchen with brisk footsteps, Saihara’s biting thoughts came back. As much as Saihara wanted to deny Momota’s words, that he really was sad about Akamatsu still because why wouldn’t he—it rang a little less true.

 

He missed her and her charismatic belief and trust, but when had he really mourned her? His thoughts of her weren’t overbearingly depressing, but happy thoughts. Nice ones, accompanied with biting nostalgia and bittersweet commentary, but good memories nonetheless.

 

His feelings really were a mess. Of course, his chest hurt whenever he thought about her, but he liked to think the brightness of those memories and thoughts could overshadow the hurt.

 

When he gets down to it, he wouldn’t replace those three days. He loved Akamatsu, and still does. And that’s the truth. Somewhere along the line she became someone so, so important. So her loss does hurt, but she always talked about staying positive.

 

Saihara thinks he feels obligated to mourn Akamatsu because if he doesn’t, it’s like she’s stopped mattering. It’s a little silly but when the thought’s properly placed in his mind it makes so much sense to him and him alone. If people aren’t sad over her death, how important is she to them?

 

If Saihara doesn’t mourn her, does she even matter to him? Has she ever been important enough to make him feel grief over her?

 

It’s not exactly logical; Akamatsu’s self worth is not determined by how sad people are over her demise. But Saihara can’t help but believe in it because it does make sense, and at the same time it doesn’t.

 

But Akamatsu would surely find it silly. She always believed in not giving up and staying strong. She’d probably chastise him if he heard her thoughts in the moment; thinking of that brings a small little smile to Saihara’s face.

 

Momota decides to shuffle back in that moment without anything to eat in his hands. The look on Saihara’s face must reveal some bit of what he feels, because Momota doesn’t hesitate to return, sitting back in his chair.

 

“What do you think? Was the great Momota Kaito right again?” The other’s smile is boisterous and lacks all the grace of Akamatsu’s but retains all the summery positivity.

 

“...yeah.”

 

He’s scared of not feeling grief after Akamatsu’s passing because some part of him associates that with caring for someone. And it’s not like he’ll stop thinking that because of this one talk with Momota but...he’s aware of this now.

 

It will probably take a long time before Saihara’s chest stops panging every time he thinks about Akamatsu. Maybe forever, in his eyes. But in this moment, he won’t regret loving Akamatsu.

 

“Thanks, Momota.” A smile, the largest he’s had in a long time, crosses his face. Momota smiles back.

 

“No problem! You’re my faithful sidekick, after all—what kinda hero would I be if I couldn’t help you out a little?”

 

When he heads back, he finds he doesn’t dread the prospect of dreaming all that much anymore.

 

\---

 

The auditorium is large and perfectly built for amplifying sound. This includes the voices of a pianist on the stage and a detective in the front row seats.

 

This time, Saihara goes first. “Akamatsu.”

 

“Yes?” She doesn’t look at him, but he still knows she’s paying attention either way. This is his dream after all; and he knows it is, even if it’s a very malleable sort of cognition. It slips his mind that this isn’t real when he says his next words.

 

“I’m sorry. For, well, everything.”

 

“Don’t be.” Her words are gentle. “I made the decision on my own, after all. Besides, I killed Amami, even if accidently.”

 

Saihara knows that this Akamatsu isn’t the real one, that this one sitting in front of a piano is just his own mind conjuring up her likeness. But it doesn’t stop him from clinging onto the small shred of hope that maybe these words will reach the other Akamatsu too.

 

“I know. But I wanted to say that.” Saihara takes a deep breath (why does he need to psyche himself up by saying this in his own dream?) and continues. “And...I loved—no, love you.”

 

“Oh.” Akamatsu’s mouth forms a small O, and her fingers stop, the abrupt end to her tune quickly fading from the auditorium. A small blush suffuses her cheeks, and she quickly raises her hands to cup them. “Oh.”

 

Saihara feels awfully awkward and immediately regrets it, his own cheeks warming up. “Sorry, I—I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry.”

 

“No, no...I’m actually really happy you said that.” Akamatsu’s still blushing but her hands fall from her cheeks as she turns around on her seat, smiling. “Me too, actually. I love you.”

 

It’s like the world has fallen around him, leaving just the auditorium behind. There’s nothing but blood rushing to Saihara’s ears, and he ducks his head, face heating up.

 

When he dares look up again, there’s a sad sort of smile on Akamatsu’s face. “It kinda sucks that we’re only telling each other this now.”

 

The warmth dies down from Saihara’s cheeks. “Yeah…”

 

“But don’t give up!” Akamatsu’s bright expression returns, like she’s trying to will away those thoughts of his that keep returning. “You have me after all, even if I’m not physically there. I’ll be cheering you on!”

 

“Thanks.” Saihara returns the smile.

 

“No problem. See you, Saihara.” He knows he won’t ever, because he’s made peace with his dreams so he doesn’t need to dream about her anymore.

 

But then he says “see you” in return, and Akamatsu seems to believe that. So maybe they will meet again, if not in this life then the next.

 

Akamatsu’s still smiling when the curtains close, and all of a sudden the empty auditorium’s replaced with a gray ceiling.

 

This time, Saihara gets out of bed and opens his door before Momota can start ringing his doorbell.

 


End file.
